


Surrounded

by marimoes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Drinking, M/M, POV Zevran Arainai, of sorts, post landsmeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marimoes/pseuds/marimoes
Summary: There is something about the Warden that captures Zevran. It isn't his foot against his chest when he fails his mission, or his hands around wrists as the night captures them herself. No, it's far simpler than either of those, and continues to pin him further the longer they travel together.What holds Zevran is something that rests between the dimples on the Warden's cheeks.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Kudos: 9





	Surrounded

There is nothing better than a filthy bar in Denerim. Nothing, except maybe a filthy bar in Antiva, but this will do for now. After all, beer is still beer, and is still terrible as it pours down Zevran’s throat. A sensation he himself is not unfamiliar with, being that he’s currently poured onto the chair beneath him. 

It, along with the rest of the tavern, is made of wood that creaks when moved, and it makes him even more comfortable. He can hear everyone in this room whether they know it or not, and it brings him an ease that he’s learned to despise. Though his focus remains on the tipping of chair legs against the floor in front of him. A steadier creak, back and forth, as the Warden leans. 

One foot pressed into the discolored floor, while the other floats in the air across his knee. It’s casual and easy, regardless of the words that come from his mouth. 

“You cannot convince me that you meant to do that, Alistair. There is simply no way you intended to behead that man. I know you better.” 

Alistair’s hands push the table and it too creaks. Wood that groans much like his mouth while he walks away towards the bar. Funny man, Alistair is. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes though. None of their smiles do—except the Warden’s. 

Which makes it worse, Zevran thinks, and has thought many times now in the days since his failure. Even then, when he was staring up at him from the ground with a smile of his own that said, “fuck, I’ve done it now”, the Warden’s reached. It reached down along with his hand and tugged on Zevran’s, bringing him up to stand. 

It would proceed to bring him to Redcliffe, Orzammar, and small places in between. It would bring him to things Zevran was certain he would never see outside of a darkened room, with sighs that would stay kept in the lungs that could not take another breath. He was brought—to help. 

Truly help. Truly wanted. Zevran is paid in currency he’s never been offered before: laughs, nudges, and smiles. Smiles that always reach past his tattoos and into his hair. Payment that is curled into palms that know what the next morning will bring, instead of a night with a lover that spells the end. 

_Lover. Amore._ These words are often fluid like the drink in his hands. He says ‘hello’ just as much now, and even that word feels different on his tongue when it is spoken in the Warden’s direction. 

“Zevran.” 

“Yes?” Zevran asks, voice tilting on the end like the legs that balance just so against the ground before him, “Need another drink?” 

The Warden shakes his head, one eye closing to gauge the foam that colors a milky band no more than a few inches below the rim. All before dropping his chair back against the floor. “No, I’m fine. Are you?” 

Zevran doesn’t know the answer to that. He’s never really been asked it before—not outside of a particularly fun position a few summers ago. Legs aren’t supposed to bend that way. He knows that now, but he still doesn’t know this. 

“Of course, my friend,” Zevran answers, fast enough to mask any tone that may try and slip from his chest, “Just thinking of the big bad that awaits us. Riveting, no?” 

His eyes flit to their other companions. Neither of them have smiles, neither of them are paying Zevran any mind, and he likes it that way. It’s easy that way. 

The Warden does not look away the way he would if it were the others, or even another night. His eyes settle on Zevran with a pressure that makes him start to break. Causing cracks to form, jutting across his chest, and it’s almost audible in his ears. If he had paid more attention, he would know that they’ve been forming for a while. 

Small wedges pushed into him in the light of day by the Warden’s hands. Over and over, Zevran has repaired and sealed them. Not well enough, he’s learning. Or did he really try at all? Were they simply painted over again with gold, hoping to hold together the appearance of something greater than he is?

A simple clay pot, made of common ground and pressed by the world into a shape that is usable. Shining a dull color to deceive the best he can—to prove his worth. That’s all he’s ever been, but even so it’s kept him alive all this time. 

Yet the Warden doesn’t bother using him as designed. 

Yes, Zevran still stabs people. Yes, they die. That hasn’t changed, and he doubts it ever will. The only difference lies in the look that he’s given after completing the task. No pride sits in the Warden’s eyes, now streaked with his own cover of blood. 

He feels what Zevran does, yet takes a different path to get there. Necessity being the cause that brings down those in front of them, but even that cannot grant solace in the silence that comes after. When breathing stops and all that hangs is air—that is the lowest point. The bottom of the pit in which Zevran has learned to climb out of time and time again.

“Very. Facing the archdemon is going to be difficult, I’m sure,” The Warden sighs, finger tracing a broken sound from a chipped glass. His eyes again find Zevran’s, and a smile follows behind. It’s a sad one, but a smile all the same. 

Zevran has to stop himself from leaning forward and trying to reach something else as well. There is discomfort in this instinct. It isn’t natural to him as the other ones in his belt are. He may as well not breathe, for the air he takes in will only leak from the fractures in his skin. 

“You will be fine! And if it tries to touch you—” Zevran starts, with usual pomp and promise, but it falls when the words process. If it touches him—hurts him—what will he do? “I will—” 

A hand rests against Zevran’s. The Warden doesn’t try to touch, he just does. With fingertips that push the last pieces of him apart, finally shattering the clay beneath the paint. It allows fear to find him fully at last. No longer does it have a barrier to combat against, and all at once Zevran is surrounded by walls he cannot climb. 

Looking up, he tries to find what he has come to know. A crutch that has turned constant. Yet, there is nothing.

The Warden smiles, but it does not reach. 

**Author's Note:**

> Zevran being seen and loved... and scared for someone. oof. ouch. 
> 
> Twitter: @__moes__


End file.
